Community Work
by arctique48
Summary: A number of Azkaban inmates are offered the chance to choose their ‘path back to society’ from a list of minority groups they terrorised in previous lives. DHr
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: Hogwarts etc belongs to JKR**

**AN: **This is completely different to everything else I've written, and I feel compelled to upload it simply for that.

* * *

**Daily Prophet – March 23rd**

**_Community Work To Be Given a Dangerous New Twist?_**

**_Rehab has recently taken a surprising new line of action as twenty-two year old veteran, Hermione Granger, takes control,_**_ writes Rita Skeeter._

I have just had the pleasure of meeting with Ms Granger, long-term friend of one Mr Harry Potter, in a small coffee shop in muggle London. The room is airy with a faint smell of coffee beans and the young witch looks quite at home in her comfortable leather armchair. And indeed, what better place to talk about the radical new changes our Ministry is undergoing?

_It has been three years since the end of the war and as you well know, Ms Granger and her friends were among the first to bring about talks of the future of the current inhabitants of Azkaban. "Not all of them are guilty enough to merit their place there," she tells me, face earnest and her eyes shining with that famed righteous passion of hers. Some of you will have heard of Ms Granger's past attempts at promoting house elf rights, and will be aware that she is no stranger to fighting for those who want (and deserve?) nothing of her help. _

_She tells me that the new program, though largely designed by herself, has been checked and backed completely by Harry Potter himself, so we may rest easy that the changes will not allow dangerous Death Eaters to run about resurrecting Dark Lords as and when they please. The program is designed to gradually reintroduce offenders into society through a variety of 'alternative' routes. One example given to me was experiencing life as a muggle for a year or so, before being re-introduced to magic. At this stage wizards will be returned their wands and will attend training classed until they are at a standard to resit their NEWTs, _

_A number of inmates are offered the chance to choose their 'path back to society' from a list of minority groups that they terrorised in their previous life, and after sitting a theory exam and a number of psychological tests they are released into a controlled environment where they live out a period of time ranging from a week to a year as, for example, a muggle, a troll, a house elf or a goblin. 'Living as the enemy' so to speak, until they no longer consider them 'enemies'._

_Ms Granger believes that this experience will allow the prisoners to change their attitude and she has high hopes for this new brand of community work._

For information about applying for a job as rehabilitation supervisor you are asked to owl the Department of Wizarding (and non-wizarding) Rights, RE: Rehab Officers. (Persons with previous auror/Order experience preferred).

For further discussion on the pros and cons of having murder-convicts washing our dishes stay tuned to tomorrow's Prophet, and for any additional information about your own safety in relation to the launch of this program please owl the Ministry of Magic Enquiries Desk, RE: Community Work – should I be afraid?

-

Draco looked down at his completed application form.

They'd all been given a brief lecture on the new rehab opportunity and though the prospect of living as either a house elf did not really appeal to him, it had to be an improvement to _this_. He frowned vaguely at the grey walls lining his cell.

Physically Azkaban was about as bad as prisons got, damp, dark and more often than not, cold. The waves beat monotonously against the walls outside and light always seemed reluctant to enter the small barred window which sat six feet over his head. But that was not all. Psychologically the effects of any length of sentence here was difficult to describe. He could _feel _himself going insane. Happy thoughts were sucked away by dementors like dust near a cleaning charm, but it was the other thoughts that bothered him. The logical ones. The only things that _really_ anchored him as him, and the way they just…drifted. Like they had somewhere better to be. It was like feeling your personality or your eye colour or… the core of your mind, just leak out of your left ear. It was a permanent headache, it made his nightmares worse, and quite honestly, it was worrying him.

His father may have survived Azkaban, but since the escape of Sirius Black and then the mass breakout of the Death Eaters the dementors and Ministry combined had developed new weapons, and Draco had a feeling if he stayed here much longer he wouldn't remain Draco.

And that was the reason for the form.

A few months as a house elf? After everything he'd been through? It was going to be _easy_. One could even consider it a well-earned rest.

-

**_Form type 12: High Security Prisoner_**

**_Name_**_: Draco Malfoy_

**_Cell number_**_: 528_

**_Sentence_**_: Life_

**_Crime_**_: Death Eater activities. _

**_Rehabilitation in which area, Muggle or House Elf?_**_ House Elf._

**_Reason for above choice_**_: Magic, some minor level of intelligence, grasp of concept of civilised society (if second hand), sanitary living conditions. _

**_Why should you be selected for rehabilitation?_**_ I am young with a full life ahead of me to contribute to our growing wizard economy. The reactivation of my family's fortune would be enough to pull wizarding Britain out of its current droop in of wealth and I have a great many skills which could aid the Ministry in their attempts at rebuilding the community destroyed in the war. I am intelligent and willing to learn and will be a great asset to whoever employs me. I can be considerate and caring when it is called for and I would donate a large sum of money to St Mungo's for the help they have given my mother in the stress of mine and my father's absence._

-

A day passed. More forms were filled in. More forms were collected. The collected forms were tied in a bundle. The bundle was given to an owl. The owl flew across the raging North Sea, over Scotland and through England, until it landed in a flurry of fleeing feathery bodies on Nelson's Column, Trafalgar Square. The pigeons squawked and fluttered but the owl simply took off again, arriving at the post chute of the Ministry of Magic some time after midnight.

From here the forms were passed from elf to elf, shuffled through and retied when one was dropped, passed from trolley to trolley and eventually to a nice witch with a scruffy grey bun who levitated them to a final resting place on a crowded (though never cluttered) pine wood desk.

And now, sometime past sunrise, Hermione Granger sat seven hundred miles south of Azkaban prison, dressed smartly in brown office robes and clinging to a mug of coffee like a lifeline.

Her desk lay before her, piled high with a miniature city of parchments, memos and muggle post-it notes. Some were official, some from friends and some just to remind her to step back, look at the bigger picture, consider her health and go home to rest once in a while.

A pink post-it stuck to her inkpot started to glow. It read:

Calm down, take a deep breath and remember that things will get done without you bleeding for them. – Harry :)

She wasn't sure what charm he'd used for it but whenever she got particularly hysterical or nervous it would start glowing. And it never failed to make her smile, even if she tended not to heed to its advice.

Hermione looked at the largest and most official looking bundle on her desk, yellowed parchment tied with the traditional black ribbon of Azkaban. It had arrived sometime during the night. She could practically hear her heart racing.

This was the most hopeful plan she had yet, killing three or four birds with one stone. If it was successful it would empty a good number of cells in Azkaban, reducing the number of dementors they needed to employ and control, give mindless criminals and eventually the brainwashed slaves of Voldemort a second (or third) chance at life in the big wide world and at the same time, build respect and understanding for species traditionally victimised by the wizarding race.

It was perfect.

But also highly experimental… She'd begged Harry long and hard to get him to put a good word in for her with the panel of wizards that governed Magical Britain, and now she had the Minister's official agreement her mind was reeling with the implications of everything that could go wrong.

Retired aurors were signing up in their droves to supervise the applicants and it was beginning to occur to her that though they were experienced to handle any situation if things went awry, they would also have somewhat of a grudge against the Death Eaters who killed so many of their friends. She sighed. She would have to do many of the regular check-ups necessary herself, especially among the higher profile cases, and that would mean yet more parchmentwork, as if she wasn't drowning in beaurocracy as it was…

Sitting up straight as though bracing herself for a mental blow she pulled the bundle of application forms towards her.

And then she swore.

Right on the very top of the pile was Draco Malfoy.

-

"Where the _hell _am I meant to get a company willing to have _him_ work as a house elf for them?"

"Mrhmphle."

"Ron! Take your hand away from your mouth and _stop laughing! _This is not funny!"

"Draco Malfoy. Bouncing Slytherin ferret. Death Eater. Phfmple. House Elf? HA!"

"Ron!"

"What kinda stuff did you have in mind for them to do, anyway?"

"You know… Cleaning kitchens, painting fences… the easy stuff house elves do. They'll be bound by magical contract too so even if they wanted to hurt anyone they'd be unable to."

"What… you're going to have Malfoy bang his head against the wall every time he has a bad thought about anyone he works for? Could I give him to my mum? She's always wanted a house elf… and he'd be concussed or something after a day!"

"Ron, This is serious."

"Hermione. This is funny."

"Hmph."

"What about Fred and George! They've got a business and they're always moaning about cleaning charms going wrong!"

"No! No Weasleys!"

"You're so mean."

"What am I going to do!"

"I thought you had all the contacts lined up already, wasn't that one of the conditions Harry gave you? Willing participants?"

"Yeah."

"Well then, what's the problem, are any of them backing out?"

"Well, no…"

"So what's wrong?"

"I'd just feel mean! Malfoy has no concept of the amount of work elves have to do. He's taken them for granted all his life. Would you really want to be there to witness the moment when it sinks in, exactly how much menial work he's signed himself up to?"

"Honestly? Yes."

"Well, not within striking distance you don't."

"…"

"Please stop laughing. This is going to end up such a mess! I didn't think any of the _real_ Death Eaters would sign up on the trial run. I thought it would just be petty thieves that'd only need to do a week or something."

"Petty thieves don't go to Azkaban, you know that."

"Well, arson or something. But he's a murderer and he knows the Dark Arts and _he's got the bloody Mark!_"

"You designed it with Death Eaters in mind."

"Yes… but. Malfoy? As a house elf? Have you any concept of the parchmentwork he's going to create for me! And the contract charms are wired too tight for someone as bitter as him! What if he ends up killing himself because he's not allowed to mouth off about his supervisors or employers? This is going to be a total failure!"

"…Erm… Do you want me to get Harry?… Or Ginny?… Oh. You don't need to cry. Erm... It's gonna be okay?…"

"Shut up, Ron! You should have made me listen to Harry in the first place!"

* * *

**AN:** I'm toeing the water with this one. Your thoughts?


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer: Hogwarts etc belongs to JKR**

**AN:** Firstly, I'd like to thank everyone who reviewed last chapter; I know was playing up a bit, so a big thank you to all of you and especially tahwekilelohcin who went to the effort of PM-ing me when reviewing didn't work. You're all wonderful! Big smiles all round.

* * *

-

**Stage One**

-

_Department of Wizarding And Non-Wizarding Rights_

_Ministry of Magic_

_London_

_RE: Rehab Officers_

_Dear Sir/Madam_

_Here follows my application for the job of 'rehabilitation officer'._

Form type 24: Ex-Auror Rehab Application 

_**Name**: Martina Figgot_

_**Occupation**: Retired Auror _

_**Previous Experience with members of Dark Side:** Voldemort Wars (both), Grindewald War (tail end)_

_**Rehabilitation in which area, Muggle or House Elf?** House Elf._

_**Reason for above choice**: More general knowledge in the area, owned one as a child. _

_**Why should you be selected for as rehabilitation officer?** I have years of experience in dealing with difficult types and hold a great deal of respect for those willing to attempt reformation. I am patient and personable but also capable of dealing well with stressful/potentially dangerous situations. My track record is excellent and I want as much as anyone to see the Wizarding World back on its feet again. _

_In addition to my extensive fieldwork that you'll find listed in my attached Curriculum Vitae, I'd like to state that I had quite a prominent role in the Malfoy Estate case at the end of the war, so I am well versed in the finer political and financial sides of Voldemort's war. _

_Yours Truly_

_Martina Figgot_

Hermione placed the tatty application form and its accompanying CV back on her desk. She then picked up Malfoy's form. Glancing from the two and then to the grey-haired interviewee in the seat front of her she felt the grin growing on her face.

The woman was absolutely perfect.

-

She's about five foot three, she wears floral print skirts and she smells of cats.

She's also edging on sixty with a sense of humour he can only label as vicious.

Draco is not impressed.

"You want me to do what?"

She smiles at him. It's all teeth. "You heard me. There's your parchment and ink, get cracking."

_Ergh,_ his lip curls in fascinated distain,_ 'cracking'._

"I think you are completely and utterly insane."

"Just do it, Mr Malfoy."

Taking a dignified breath and glaring in her general direction he drops to sit at the desk she's conjured in his cell.

"They said it was going to be a senior Ministry official, not some twisted old woman in a yellow muggle dress," he mutters.

"With you're track record I'd hardly consider you eligible to make such assumptions."

He blinks. Dementors aren't so quick with the comebacks. "What assumptions?"

"Twisted? From the man who raped, pillaged and burned all for the good of the wizarding community? Furthering civilisation, you called it?"

"…"

"…"

"I didn't rape anyone."

"Oh, I'm terribly sorry. Feel free to replace that one with murder or torture, my mistake."

He stares. _My God. It's Granger incarnate._

She takes out a cigarette and lights up.

_Perhaps not._

"I don't get the point of this."

She breathes a cloud of smoke at him. He coughs. "You don't have to. Consider it your penance, paying for your sins. I don't necessarily agree with it, but if you complete all the work I set, and I consider it of the standard of someone fit to return to society, then you get out. And if I'm not happy, you stay. Simple as that. You don't have to get the _point_."

"…"

"…"

"But lists?"

"Do you have a problem with lists?"

"… Well. Yes, actually."

"Oh yes?"

"Yes."

She bares her nicotine-yellowed teeth at him; he decides it's meant to be a smile. "And what problem is this? Are they a waste of time? Because it seems to me you have just about all the time in the world. You even told me yourself that my company is an improvement on the Dementors, so I should imagine you would rather enjoy our time together, lists or no."

"Don't smile at me like that. You look like a snake."

"A Slytherin, you mean?"

"…"

"No need to wince. Hogwarts can't hurt you …though if I were it I'd certainly try…"

He knows his frown is petulant, but he's not about to let it stop him.

"You're enjoying this, aren't you?"

"What, tormenting you? Why shouldn't I? At least I don't use thumbscrews and dark magic. You should be glad we won the war. You'd be in here either way and at least with us your limbs are still attached and you've only got one head."

His eyebrows raise, she's one hell of a bitter old woman. _I'd try and set her up with Snape, but I doubt even Potter could be that cruel to him…_

"Don't look so confused. We found His headquarters, remember? The ones you chickened out of giving us references for? There were plans there… about things."

_Eh?_ "Things? What sort of things? You knew what he was going to do?"

"…"

"…"

"I told you not to smile like that."

"You're in no position to tell me anything Mr Malfoy, and yes, we knew. Though the way you carried on I'd have expected you to have too. You had us under the impression you were real inner-circle material… Another lie? Two more and we're likely to have a full page…"

"How long is this list supposed to be?"

"Change of subject? How wise."

"…"

"What have you got so far?"

He looks down at his blank parchment.

She smiles sweetly, "Of course, Mr Malfoy, take as long as you want."

-

"And you're certain this is a good idea?"

"Harry! I'm serious, this woman is incredible! I'll admit she's not much to look at, but her last job before retiring was incarcerating the entire Malfoy Estate. It's thanks to her innovative, and quite frankly inventive, techniques that Lucius was denied a trial, and it was the team she directed that caught Draco Malfoy."

"Yes, but-"

"And! She did it all without him having a clue! When she questioned him she was under Polyjuice, and her team always referred to her a 'the Boss', just to mess with the prisoners' heads. She's _perfect!_"

"Hermione! I thought we had an agreement with this one? I know she's well able to handle him, but can he handle her? She knows to much about him! That's not an impartial supervisor! The whole point of this was to get them safe to release back into society… not bully them until their so bitter they're likely to leap back into the Dark Arts the moment their wands are returned to them."

"A slight reversal of roles, don't you think? Shouldn't it be me lecturing _you_ on the ethics?"

"…"

"Look, I promise, I'm not going to let this go wrong. Ha, even if I wanted to mess with Malfoy I couldn't. The success of this program could make or break my career… so many people already think I'm absolutely mad for even attempting it. I know what I'm doing, Harry. The last thing you need to worry about is me screwing this one up. It means too much."

"Just be careful, Hermione."

"I am being careful."

-

_Dear Sir/ Madam_

_I am writing on behalf of the Department of Wizarding And Non-Wizarding Rights of the Ministry of Magic, London. _

_Some months ago you agreed to take on an Azkaban convict as a house elf to aid our new rehabilitation scheme and I have enclosed all information you will need for employing said elf._

_I will leave naming up to you, and as agreed in your contract you will have no knowledge of its convictions. Appearance altering potions will be sent along at a later date and it is obligatory that your 'elf' takes his/hers every twelve hours. You will understand that this is to keep identity as confidential as possible and ensures that in the case of your elf leaving the premises on an errand there will be no alerting of the aurors by members of the public certain they have seen an escaped criminal wondering the streets. (The altering potion will do no more than blurring the features of the witch/wizard, so do not expect to see them appear in full house elf form.)_

_The elf will come accompanied with a trained supervisor, well briefed in how to deal with any unexpected situations, so if you have any enquiries you should be able to ask them, or at least contact me through them. _

_Your 'elf' will arrive in exactly one week (Stage One of our program insists on all applicants completing a rigorous theory exam, so we are certain they are ready to take up the job of house elf in a prospering business) and I hope he/she is everything you hoped for._

_Thank you for your cooperation and enthusiasm and I look forward to hearing from you regarding the success of the scheme in months to come. _

Hermione Granger 

-

"So, Mr Malfoy, how is that list coming on?"

Draco glared at the parchment in front of him.

'_What have house elves done for me?_' the title proclaimed in scratchy black ink. Beneath it 'f_uck all_' had been scored out angrily and a list now spanning over two feet followed in unpractised scrawl.

He'd been in prison longer than he cared to remember, it must be edging on three years now, and this was the first time he'd held a quill. (High Security prisoners were not allowed even so much as an annual letter home.)

"Finished? You've had two hours."

He grunted in response.

The old woman clapped her hands together, "Well then, read it out, boy!"

He resisted the urge to whine, 'but it's long!' and instead picked up the sheet.

"Fine. One. Birth, they looked after my mum and stuff, though there was a mediwitch to look after me…"

"Well done, that's the one most people have been forgetting."

"Two. Cooking. Breakfast, lunch and dinner and any snacks in between."

"Yes."

"Cleaning. The whole Manor, including all the tunnels we didn't really have mapped. Three. Gardening and general maintenance of the grounds…"

"Any more?"

He glared at her. "Four. Sweeping the chimney and looking after the owls."

"Yes."

"Five. Making the beds and tidying my room."

"Ha!"

"Six. Cleaning our clothes. Seven. Lighting the fires. Eight. Decorating the house at Christmas and wrapping the presents."

"Mhmm."

"Look, it's a long list, I get it. Can I go now?"

"Nope. Orders are orders and the boss was very specific that you were to read the entire list."

"Then what?"

"Well, if I, as your supervisor, am satisfied then you're onto Stage Two, Mr Malfoy, Magical Rehabilitation: Practical Level. I know personally that she had a lot of fun planning that section of the program."

"I don't like the way you're grinning."

"You don't need to, get on with that list. This is practically an exam, you do realise that?"

"Yeah, yeah."

-

A number of hours later found Draco lounging against the bars of his cell reading in monotone.

"Four-hundred-and-sixty-three. Watering the houseplants and cleaning out the greenhouses. Four-hundred-and-sixty-four. Maintaining tapestries and portraits."

"Yes?"

"Four-hundred-and-sixty-five. Mucking out the stables. Four-hundred-and-sixty-six. Looking after and grooming the winged horses…" He looked up. "That's it. End of list."

"Well done, Mr Malfoy," said Martina. "Now get some sleep. You've got a heavy day tomorrow."

-

_Dear Ms Granger,_

_I am pleased to inform you that Draco Malfoy has completed Stage One of his Magical Rehabilitation (House Elf specification). He passed the theory exam to a high standard (though with an awful lot of complaining) and I am satisfied that he is ready to try a little field work, in and around the community. I will have him moved to the temporary unit tomorrow where I am to brief him on what Stage Two entails. _

_I have kept his list/exam paper, as requested, and I wait patiently for your instructions on how to begin Stage Two._

_Yours truly,_

_Martina Figgot_

-

Ron looked up from the letter Hermione had handed him, "This is gonna be _so_ good!"

"I dunno… I haven't so much as seen Malfoy since the war… What if he recognises me? None of them know who's organising this whole thing."

"Through Polyjuice? I doubt it." He laughed, "I just don't see why you wouldn't want them to know! This is such a damn good idea!"

"I wish you wouldn't laugh at it like that, Ron. I makes me feel like I've made a horrible mistake."

"What? In making _Malfoy_ work through each and every point on the list? How in Merlin's name could that be a mistake? Can't you just see his face! This is so-o good!"

"Ron! Stop it!"

"Who're you giving him to, anyway?"

"That is none of your business, Ronald. The last thing we need is you wandering in to provoke him into doing something I'll regret. Just let it be, yeah?"

"Of course, Hermione."

"Don't smile at me like that. It makes me think you've not listened to a word I've said."

"Relax. I'm not gonna do anything."

"Please stop laughing, Ron."

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**Review!**


	3. Chapter 3

**AN:** Since the last time I posted I've finished all my AS-levels and turned seventeen. Double Yay!

-

**Stage Two – Induction**

-

Several miles from London, just past the edge of rural Green Belt land, there was a town.

The town was distinctly muggle with a pleasant country feel and two oast houses standing proudly over a road sign inscribed, "Welcome to Kent, the Garden of England." The place itself was called Rittlewater after the Rittle stream which flowed through the village green, and the villager's themselves were very proud of their colourful hanging baskets, which they'd be quick to tell you had won them many awards.

Beneath and slightly to the left of two of these famed Rittle baskets there was a picnic bench and on it sat a woman dressed in a beige suit and dark glasses.

"Miss Granger?" asked a short old man, nervously fiddling with the tweed muggle hat that was clearly a new addition to his poorly selected wardrobe.

The woman looked up and smiled, "Ah, Geoffrey, glad to see you could make it. Are the others here?"

He smiled toothily. "Barbara's in the pub. She acting very friendly with the muggle barman last time I saw… George say's he's running late and Amelia came in robes and had to go back to change. The others are over there." He pointed to the other side of the green where a gaggle of mismatchingly dressed 'muggles' sat uncomfortably on two park benches.

"Right," smiled Miss Granger, "And the elves?"

Geoffrey gave her a look that suggested such jokes were not in good taste, "the _volunteers_," he stressed, "are in the safe house down the road, as you requested."

"Very good," she replied, "Would you mind fetching Barbara for me? I'll wait by the others."

The following five minutes saw a mother frogmarch her curious child past the gathering of muggle-dressed wizards smiling forcedly while her eyes darted and the corner of her mouth twitched with whispered warnings to the girl trailing from her arm. From the nearby pub benches there were craning necks of locals and when the sound of a car backfiring like a gunshot rattled around the green all eyes in the strange party turned to glare at the newcomer.

"It's called a silencing charm, Amelia," hissed one witch.

"Sorry," muttered the other sheepishly, "I was in a rush. You make it sound like we're on a raid or something."

"You're lucky old Mad-Eye wasn't here to hear that," muttered the first. "You'd be on filing duty for a year."

"Ladies…" interrupted Miss Granger reproachfully. "Now that we're all here, I'd like to say a few words of thanks to all of you. This programme means a lot to me and I'm truly honoured to have your support."

There was scattered nodding while the old witch sent Amelia one final glare.

Hermione paused and looked around. "I hope you've all had a chance to talk a little to each other because this is the team you will be working in for the next few months. As I am sure you are all aware you each have an Azkaban convict in your care and you are charged with ensuring his or her safety and cooperation in the programme which will allow them to live as a house elf in the hopes of reintroducing them to society."

"Why are we all here dressed as muggles then?" asked one grey haired woman. "I feel right silly with this dress on."

Hermione smiled, "Well, it was a nice day, that pub does excellent food and I appreciate that you'll all most likely need a good drink when you're done breaking the news to your supervisees." At the unconvinced faces she added, "We had hoped that it would heighten your sensitivity, being an outsider surrounded by another race of humans, and that you might be a little more understanding should your convict suffers any troubles settling in to their new workplace."

"Hmph," was the general consensus from the elderly aurors sitting around her.

"Well, back to business," said Hermione, nervously wringing her hands. "I'll make this quick as your letters describe most of what you have to do and I've got to go and brief the supervisors of the 'muggle' branch of the programme, so, if you'll all listen closely…"

-

Draco was lying on a bed, looking at the swirls of plaster on the ceiling.

It was a real bed.

With feather pillows.

Almost against his will he felt his features twist into a smile. He hadn't had feather pillows since he'd ran from Hogwarts.

The typical Azkaban cell consisted of three rough hewn stone walls, a ceiling so nondescript it may as well just have been the walls merging into one a few feet above his head, and a fourth wall consisting entirely of heavy black metal bars, sunk into the rock and woven with allsorts of ritual magic that needed far more than a wand to be broken. There was a chamber pot, emptied (to his initial horror and lasting disgust) every two days and then what he presumed was meant to be a bed. A woven straw mattress wrapped in some kind of scratchy wool. It was awful.

But now he was sitting on a real bed with legs and a mattress with springs, he'd just used a bathroom with taps and a toilet with a _flush_, he was wearing _new_ robes, black and boring but _new _and _clean _all the same. He had the vague feeling his mother would be ashamed of his utter delight at such small pleasures, but right now he did not care. He'd just washed his hair and life was (dare he say it?) good.

Or at least, for those few minutes it was. Draco was never a superstitious man but later he would curse himself for such idly optimistic thoughts. Had his father taught him nothing? Had his own spell as a Death Eater taught him _nothing_? Things could (and by his own experience _would_) always get worse.

"Ah, Mr Malfoy, enjoying your spell of freedom I see."

The door closed behind Martina with a snap.

"Glad to see you have some sense left in you, one poor woman downstairs tried to get out the window," laughed the old witch, "I must say the organiser of this programme has been extremely thorough with her preparations, the would be escapee was tied back to the bedpost with her own hair."

Draco cringed almost in spite of himself. He had to admit with some surprise that the moment he sat down on the bed all thought of escape left his head entirely, replaced with a warm fuzzy knowledge that the pillows were _soft_. He frowned to himself, that probably meant the bed was charmed, next time he really should be more careful.

"What the hell are you doing here?" was all he said on the matter.

The old witch laughed.

-

Michael Strapford was first and foremost a businessman.

Half-blood and ambitious he had married into a pureblooded family not to ensure his own happiness or even that of his new wife, but to gain a foothold in the predominantly pureblood and highly competitive business sector of the wizarding world. And the foothold had been granted, his father-in-law's contacts became his contacts, the family business now included him, and papers were signed ensuring that upon the death of his spouse's parents all their earthly possessions would be passed onto him.

In his eyes the deal had been a very good one.

That is, until the week following the old widow's funeral, a year since the father-in-law had passed away. It was only then that the family's rotten estate was clearly shown to him and instead of a wealth of riches and gold Strapford was left with a million galleons worth of debt.

He'd started by selling the family's vast country house for a large sum to a muggle organisation who opened stately homes to the public, much to his wife's distaste, he'd then moved on to selling the house elves and then auctioning off the priceless artefacts of magical curiosity, mostly dark and mostly to Lucius Malfoy, which just about covered the majority of the remaining problem. The family account was emptied, the estate close to non-existent but the contacts remained and with this Strapford rebuilt his business.

Now, at fifty years old and with three children of his own Michael Strapford was a prospering businessman with pretty much the monopoly on transporting rare magical species of animals and plants across wizarding Britain. He still had the same wife, though it was little secret that she hated his guts and the only thing preventing a divorce was her adoration of their children.

This was the initial root of the problem. Born to be a lady of leisure, a pureblood whose skill was beauty and career marriage, Abigail Strapford, the wife in question, had never been one for housework. Originally Michael's own mother had been living with them and managing the household while Abigail shopped and made polite conversation with other pureblooded women, but the old woman was now to frail and bitter to be of any use about the home. This was when Michael first began listening to his wife's requests for a house elf, but of course they were all far too expensive and he'd flatly refused.

However a seed had been planted in the recess of his mind and soon he found himself seeing all sorts of jobs about the work place that would be far better done by an elf. The fetching and carrying such a creature could do was phenomenal and he was certain it would pay its way ten times over were he ever to have the cash to buy one.

But he didn't have the cash and it would seem prices very much reflected the wonder he was seeing in their merits. House elves stayed with the family they were born to and freed house elves were rare and, apparently, nervous liabilities. The house elves he had sold decades back were now religiously loyal to a new set of owners and no one seemed willing to sell.

It was then that he was contacted by a Miss Hermione Granger of the Ministry of Magic.

It was perfect. He'd discussed it with his wife and even _she_ thought it was perfect. Human maids were quite the up and coming thing in the pureblood circles, she had told him, and this one wouldn't even need to be paid.

It was free labour and as a businessman Michael Strapford had jumped at the opportunity. He'd sat down with his children and together the three had settled on a suitably ridiculous name for the new arrival, while his wife speculated at great length with her friends at what conviction their new 'elf' could possibly have had.

It was with great anticipation that Michael Strapford paced his office in his best work robes ready to receive the elf and its supervisor, they'd even decked out the attic with a bed for it to sleep in.

-

"Sitting comfortably, Draco?"

He shot the woman a dry look. She chuckled.

"I've got here the information on your new employer. As traditional for house elves you will work as many hours as your master asks of you and will be paid in food and accommodation." She appeared to be holding back a smile. "Your time spent in the service of the family and their business will depend on the time it takes you to fulfil your list of tasks."

"Tasks?"

"Yes, Mr Malfoy." She was grinning now and it was making him feel particularly nauseous, "that list you wrote me during your stage one theory exam, detailing everything a house elf ever did for you? Well that is your specification list. You will spend the next however many months fulfilling the exact criteria you specified as what you'd expect from a house elf along with any other tasks your master asks of you. Any questions?"

There was a brief silence in which Draco's brain fought to comprehend such work loads, damned his quick writing, damned his in-built desire to do well in exams, damned the entire programme and whoever organised it, thought of Azkaban and weighed up his options and then settled on dragging a look of grim determination onto his face.

"No."

"Excellent. We'll be taking a muggle taxi so do tell me if you feel you are going to be sick. I'll explain the finer points of your working relationship en route."

-

_A shipment company?_ His mind hissed at him as her looked at the parchment in the car. It sounded like some menial blend of Care for Magical Creatures and Herbology.

_All the same_, another little voice noted, _it's an improvement on Azkaban_.

The thing that really got to him was the fact that he'd have to work for the family as well. A real house elf would have one or the other, it was hardly fair to give him both. Then he glanced at Martina and down at the magical cuffs encircling his hands, and he could practically hear her voice giving him a list of all the things he'd done that 'hadn't been fair'. Damn conscience. That was one thing Dementors really knew how to bring out in you.

He'd just taken his appearance altering potion and been thoroughly briefed on what was and was not allowed. Martina would accompany him everywhere for the first few days and then move to a rented accommodation later in the week from where she could check up on him every hour and be contacted were any emergencies to occur. The potion he'd taken would link him to the father of the family in a similar way to the bond between house elf and master. The potion was to be taken every twelve hours and would be administered by Martina by force if necessary. Once a week the mysterious head of the rehab programme would pay a visit but he would not be given her true identity and her business would mostly be in talking to his supervisor and employer.

And Rule Number One? No magic.

-

"Just remember, Mr Malfoy, let _me_ do the talking."

She knocked on the door.

"Come in," came their muffled invitation.

Behind a large oak desk a balding man with dark grey hair beamed at them.

"Do sit down," he said excitably, looking to Draco as though Christmas had just materialised before his very eyes several months early.

"You must be Ms Figgot," he offered his hand to Martina, smiling all the while. Draco was verbally ignored though he could see the man shooting curious glances at him. Looking around the office sullenly he wondered what exactly the potion had done to his face.

"We're very excited about this, an excellent move for both the company and my home life… if you must know Mrs Strapford has been asking me for an elf for years, I just haven't been able to afford one."

Draco stared unenthusiastically at the man; he was quite clearly an idiot.

"We've made ready a bed and what will he eat? I've never been sure of the procedure for feeding house elves."

"His specification states that they eat whatever leftovers they can find," offered Martina helpfully with a cruel smile in Draco's direction. _Damn paper_, he thought bitterly.

"He does cook, doesn't he?" the man looked concerned, "only I'd wanted to surprise my wife, she doesn't know it's arrived yet and I thought it would be nice to make her a meal."

"Of course he cooks," the old woman grinned. Draco could feel a detached area of his brain enter panic mode. He'd never cooked in his life and she knew it.

"Can he tend roses?"

"Of course."

_Erm. No. _

"How is he with children? Does he know any bedtime stories? Can we ask him to do that?"

"It's certainly in his specification."

_Damn, damn, damn, damn, damn._

"Housework?"

"Absolutely everything Mr Strapford, you really needn't worry. I will be here at all times for the first week so if there are any issues you may address me and they will be dealt with straight away."

Strapford beamed again. Draco sneered back. The man didn't seem to notice.

It was going to be a very long week.

-

The older muggles of Rittlewater Green, namely a group of ex-farmers and their gossipy wives, had had an awful lot to talk about over their evening pints.

"You think it was some sort of pensioners club from the city?" asked one elderly man.

"Nah," responded another, "I'd say there were from way up North," he said with a knowing frown. "Get up to all sorts up there, they do."

"Yeah!" offered the barmaid, "Did you see the clothes they were wearing? Some of those dresses looked like they came from the middle ages."

"Nah, I though more of sixties curtains…" commented the barmaid's friends.

"Yeah. You're right."

"Mhm, now that you say it…"

"So… a circus?"

"Don't be silly, Granddad!" uttered the little girl sipping a glass of lemonade, feet dangling from her barstool, "I heard them. They said they were part of a program. One of them made a noise like a gun!"

The adults muttered and craned their necks to see the girl.

"I think," she started matter-of-factly, "I think that they were filming a television program," she paused, "about a circus from UpNorth, like you said…" her eyes lit up, "only the circus is at war with other circus's and there are elves that they have to protect with guns!"

The adults blinked.

"Filming on our green?" said one man in wonder, "You'd have thought they'd tell us."

"The council wouldn't have," spoke one woman, known for her control of the neighbourhood watch and loud arguments with the local MP, "Never tell us anything, that lot. I'll bet they just don't want to have to pay us, or to have us making an impression on their fancy actors. Bet we wouldn't have even known 'til it was on TV."

There was a grumbled assent.

"Didn't see any cameras, mind."

"That's technology for you," said another white haired man. "My grandson does all sorts of things with computers… he's got one of them digital cameras. Very good zoom, he says."

"Ah, yes. Zooms."

"Funny looking bunch, all the same."

-

**AN:** To everyone who reviewed: you are wonderful and made my day.

To the people who added me to favourites/alerts and did not review I issue an indignant poke. If you liked something enough to fav/alert it surely you could spare time just to tell _me_, the author, that you do? I got more alerts than I got reviews for last chapter which I find very strange. I review the stories I read and like enough to alert without fail.

**If you've read it please review it.**


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